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YOU THINK I don’t belong here, but I do. Wouldn’t it be convenient for all of you to forget that I’m here, but my voice floats across the waves and soars over alien land. Follow the vapors of its trail and look at the wife he left behind. Look at me. Look.
The papers don’t write about women like me, standing with tots in arms, watching the ships bear our men away. You think ours is not a noble fight, or you tolerate our men because they serve your ends. Can you hear me?
What about me and my small son? That one, the officer that left on the ship. He loves the army and has already infected our son with his passions. The little one, too, wants to board a godless ship and sail away to where the nights are hot long after our feeble memory of heat is buried under layers of old wool.
You have no image of me. The cameras are banned and the writer too busy sharpening political points.
CAN YOU HEAR ME?
You think I’m . . . no, that’s right, you don’t think of me at all. You should.
I am the world to him.
I am who he wants to protect with his harsh commands and certain destruction. Me. Me and my son. I am what my officer seeks in the sultry night with dark legs around his waist. You think he wants the exotic, but I know he repeats the familiar. Smell his sweat, and you will know my wifely labors.
You think you cannot know me, standing faceless behind your iron curtains. Stare into the metallic sheen of your mirror. You will see my eyes, the eyes of a mother, frightened.
